


New York New York

by samchandler1986



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-04 21:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12780273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: Growing up means moving on, for all of them.[An unplanned road trip to New York changes the relationship between Joyce and Hopper irrevocably].





	1. Spark Knock

“Okay,” says Joyce, “are we ready?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing you’ve left—”

“Mom,” says Jonathan, gently. “We’re ready.”

“Okay then,” Joyce manages, and she turns the ignition. The engine splutters, coughs — and dies.

“You, uh, you have to give it a bit more choke,” Jonathan suggests. She tries again. Another asthmatic rumble, the engine still not turning over. “Um, let me try,” he says, scrambling to switch seats.

By attempt five it’s clear—the LTD is going nowhere in a hurry. “What do we do?” Will asks from the back seat, crammed in between suitcases.

“Uh,” says Joyce, holding up a hand, “just let me… let me think.”

“We could take the Pinto, maybe?”

“There’s no way we’d fit everything in there. Will’s jammed in enough as it is.”  

“I mean… I could take a Greyhound instead…?”

“But what about your things? New York is so expensive.”

“I’m just going to get a drink,” Will says, as they continue to debate the options. It’s almost a relief to escape back into the house. To spend twelve hours in the back, squashed between Jonathan’s LP player and his suitcases, would have been nightmarish. Still, his brother has to get to New York _somehow_ …

Almost reflexively Will picks up his radio, turning the dial. “El?” he says. “El, are you there?”

Silence. The chirruping birds in the trees outside. He sighs. As if he would have the good luck to—

“Will?”

“El! El, is Hopper there?”

“Yes,” she answers. “Why? What’s the matter?”

* * *

“Yeah,” says Hopper. “It’s pretty dead.”

“Well, how dead?” asks Joyce, pulling at her bottom lip. “Just needs a new battery dead or-or…?”

“Look,” says Hopper, pulling out from under the propped hood of the stricken car; stretching out his back from where he has been hunched over. She recognises his soften-the-blow expression, the words that follow unnecessary. “I’m no mechanic, but that pinging noise it’s been making for a while?”

“Yeah?” says Jonathan miserably.

“Well, that was spark knock,” Hopper explains, “and when you leave it for long enough the detonations can wind up punching a hole in your pistons.”

“So, so, we replace the pistons?” Joyce says. Hopper scrubs his beard awkwardly, which is answer enough. “Damn it, Hop.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, as she stalks a few steps away, frustrated. “It’s a new engine job.” He drops the hood of the RTD with a damning thump.

“Mom,” says Jonathan, crossing to her. “I’m-I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

“No, no. You’ve been saving every penny ready for college. I’m not mad at you.” She takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “I’m just _sorry_.”

“It’s okay. I can…” He runs a hand through his hair. Desperate times call for desperate measures. “Maybe I can give Dad a call?”

“Yeah,” Joyce says, far too brightly. “Yeah, I mean, he might…” She trails off at his expression, wrinkles her nose. They have to make a joke out of it, rather than despair. “He might pick up the ‘phone at least this time.”

“There is another option,” says the forgotten Hopper slowly.

Two heads snap round. “What?”

He indicates the Blazer with a nod of his head. “I could give you a ride.”

* * *

“So,” says Hopper, “It’ll be three days at the most. Technically Powell has seniority but any… funny business… it’s your call.”

Probationary Trooper Harrington nods, expression serious. “Sure. Sure.”

“Any questions?”

“Nope. No. I think I got it all.” He runs a hand through his newly shortened hair.

“Okay. Well, good luck kid. I’ll see you in three days.”

“Have a good trip, Chief.”

“Yeah,” he says, putting on his hat as he shuffles out. “Sure I will.”

Joyce is waiting for him in the Pinto. “Okay?”

He folds himself with difficulty into the passenger seat. “What do you think?”

She pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road. “Steve’s a good kid,” she offers. “Maybe a bit naïve, but his heart’s in the right place.”

“Right, right. Plus, he’s at least at least doubled the IQ of my department.”

She chuckles. “He’ll be fine. Like you said, you had four years in Hawkins and the worst thing that happened was—”

“—an owl attacking Eleanor Gillespie’s head,” he finishes. “Yeah, I remember.”

But her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. Neither of them really dares to believe things can be going back to the sleepy-town ways of before. They’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Perhaps they always will be.

The kids have almost finished re-packing Jonathan’s things into the Blazer when they return. He pulls Jane aside for a moment, as the Byers’ find a place for the last few personal effects. “Hey kiddo,” he says, “how do you feel about the big city?”

“Will we be safe?”

Words catch for a moment in his throat, that her first concern is still survival, after all these months. “Yeah,” he says. “No one knows who you are there. We’ll just be tourists.”

“A… vacation?” she says, hesitating over the unfamiliar word.

“Yeah,” he laughs. He’s never even thought of such a thing, it would have seemed like such a ridiculous dream until so recently. “We can go to the museums. See the Statue of Liberty.”

“…Liberty?”

Perhaps this trip is a good thing, he tells himself. Filling in the gaps in her cultural knowledge, all the things that will mark her apart if he bites the bullet and enrols her in High School next year.

“You’ll see,” he says.

* * *

Will has bought a board to rest across his knees, letting him draw as the Blazer eats up the miles out of Hawkins. It’s big enough to share as a workspace with El, and the two of them are absorbed in their sketch work.

Joyce pretends to be watching the green trees, flashing past outside the window. Listening to the quiet conversation in the back.

“Yeah, that’s it,” says Will. “It’s like Mr Heaney told me, you have to stop drawing with your head and start drawing with your eyes. Things aren’t the shape you _think_ they are, look to see what’s really there.”

“Am I gonna get to see this masterpiece when it’s finished?” asks Hopper, relaxed back in the driver’s seat after hours now of highway.

El meets his eyes for a brief second in the rear-view mirror. “Maybe,” she says, but she's smiling.

The truck rolls onwards, as twilight starts to pink the sky, lengthening the shadows of the trees.

* * *

It’s a little after two in the morning, at least another four hours of driving time left if Hopper’s any judge. His back is a fiery agony from hours in the chair, and his eyes are watering with tiredness while his heart jack-hammers from all the coffee.

Jonathan has swapped into the passenger seat for a time, the tinny sounds of The Clash escaping from his headphones. The rest are safely asleep in the back of the truck. Hopper taps they boy’s arm.

“You wanna drive for a bit?”

“Uh, sure.”

“There should be a gas station about three miles ahead. We can swap there.”

“You still remember the road?” Jonathan says quietly.

“Yeah. Drove it enough times.”

There is a long silence. Not uncomfortable, not exactly. There is an understanding between the two men, perhaps. Hopper’s no father figure to Jonathan, but he does care about his mother. And he’s risked his life over and again for Will.

“You’ll look out for them, won’t you?” Jonathan blurts out, as the gas station lights loom out of the dark.

“Yeah,” nods Hop, pulling them up at a pump. “Always." He takes a breath, awkward as hell, but some things need saying. "Look, kid. You worked hard for this. You deserve it. New York is… well, it ain’t Hawkins, that’s for damn sure.”

“I was kinda counting on it.”

Hopper smiles thinly. “I think you’ll like it. I think it will suit you. Just - ring your Mom. But let Hawkins stay in Hawkins. When we need you back, we’ll let you know.”  


	2. NYU

“El?” says Will softly, tapping her arm.

“Mm?” she manages, still more than half asleep.

“Open your eyes,” he says.

She does so, blinking owlishly. Joyce is asleep on her right, head lolling awkwardly. Jonathan and Hopper are standing outside the parked truck, the latter smoking a cigarette. Will nudges her again, pointing to the windshield. Perplexed, she cranes her neck to look.

The sun is rising. In front of the truck, across the river, is a skyscraper skyline backlit in orange fire. She’s never seen anything like it in her life. Beautiful, but overwhelmingly large. “Is that New York?” she whispers.

“Manhattan,” Will says. “Part of New York city. We’re almost there.”  

“Manhattan,” she repeats to herself, as if there’s going to be a test on it later. “Manhattan.”

* * *

She takes his hand as they walk away from the NYU campus. Dressed for the autumn chill in an oversized check shirt and deerstalker hat - she looks like a boy, and maybe that’s the point. However safe it is here, it never hurts to wear a disguise.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Taking a boat,” he says. “Doing the tourist thing.”

“A boat to where?”

“Lady Liberty.”

“Is she…?”

“Is she what?”

“Real?”

His beard twitches. “It’s a giant statue kid.”

“Oh.” She tries to muster some enthusiasm, for his sake.

He chuckles, seeing right through her. “Trust me,” he says, “she’s a little more impressive than I’ve made it sound.”

“Can we go and see the library after?”

“Yeah, we can… I take it not to borrow a book?”

It’s her turn to smile. “Ghostbusters,” she explains.

He rolls his eyes. “Sure, kid. Liberty first, then the library. Why not?”

* * *

“I think that’s the last of it,” Jonathan says, putting down the final box on the table of the dorm room. _His_ dorm room. Strange to think of it like that.  

Will glances up from re-ordering his records, and smiles. Joyce is making his bed with practiced efficiency. His heart seems to have moved into his throat again. Saying goodbye to Nancy was hard enough. Everyday has been about the three of them, for as long as he cares to remember. It doesn’t feel right that, come tomorrow, there’ll only be himself to think of.

“Right,” says Joyce briskly. “We’ll get that squared away, and then we’ll get out of your hair—”

“You don’t—you don’t have to rush off,” he says. “I’m not _ashamed_ of you.”

She blinks. “Oh, I know, honey. I know. But this is your time.” She crosses to him, smoothing her hands across his shoulders. “This is a fresh start, Jonathan. You take with you only what you want. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, understanding but still unhappy. “But…can we at least go and get some food together?”

She smiles. “I’d like that. How about you, Will?”

“Yeah, I’m hungry,” he says. “Waffles?”

“Waffles,” agrees Jonathan.  

* * *

Jane finishes her milkshake, twirling the straw in the bubbles at the bottom of the glass.

“Want another?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “This is good.”

“Alright then.”

They’re sitting in what was once, a lifetime ago, his regular booth. The staff behind the counter have all changed – college kids making extra dimes – but the cracked red leather seats are just like he remembers—

“Do you miss it?”

He worries his mustache for a moment before replying, not sure if the questions comes from idle curiosity or if she’s reading his surface thoughts. “Sometimes,” he says. “I liked how busy the city was. Being a cop here was interesting. Every day was something different.”

“Why did you leave?”

He swirls the dregs of his own cup of coffee. “Sara got sick,” he says carefully. “And afterwards… Afterwards I wasn’t okay for a long time. Things couldn’t go back to the way they were before. So, I went home. Where it was easier to just be me.”

“Sad,” she says, prodding at the bubbles again.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But there are some good things about it too.”

She meets his eyes shyly, returning his smile briefly. Affection —just for being who she is, not what she can do— still sits uncomfortably on her. He hates the bastard that put her in that lab all the more in moments like this, robbing her of a real parent for so long. Mingled anger and grief sit like a stone on his chest.   

“What now?” she asks, finally putting down the empty glass.

“Up to you, kid,” he says, folding his arms. “We could go to the museum. Or the Empire State Building – that’s the tallest building in New York. Or we could go to the park—”

“The park,” she says instantly.

“I figured. Ghostbusters too?”

She nods. “And the Muppets.”

“Good to know. Okay, park it is. Let’s call in on the others first though, see if they’re ready to come with.”

* * *

Will is wearing Jonathan’s old camera around his neck – a parting gift between the brothers. He walks ahead with Jane, looking for interesting things to photograph. A colourful leaf, a feather. The horses pulling carriages of tourists around the greenspace.

“We came to visit you,” Joyce says suddenly, breaking an hour’s silence between them. “Do you remember?”

“Course I remember.”

Before Will was born, just before he shipped out to ‘Nam. Lonnie, Joyce and Jonathan.  His oldest friend. Saying goodbye, really, in case he didn’t come back.

It had been fun—

No. That’s the lie he’s told himself so many times the truth is almost forgotten. In reality it had been… sad, in a diffuse sort of way. Lonnie had always been a dreamer, but there was a brittle edge to the projects he talked about, a disconnect between him and Joyce already turning to anger.

And that strange sense of betrayal no matter who he was talking to. A guilt that laughter still came so easily between him and Joyce, when they were jumping in puddles with Jonathan. That his heart stuttered and skipped a nervous beat when his hand accidentally brushed hers reaching for the salt at dinner. Shame that his big-city life seemed to have fallen into place with little effort, while Lonnie was stuck in Hawkins. That he’d ever left; that he never planned on coming back.

“That’s when he decided,” she continues, oblivious to his trip down memory lane. “NYU.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Why?” she shoots back. Not angry, not exactly. “ _Why_ would you be sorry about that? I’m so proud of him, Hop. You know? Winning that scholarship. Getting himself out here. I’ve worried for… for _years_ that we screwed him up. All that shouting. Not being there for him, with work all the time.”   

“You _were_ there for him—”

“Not enough. Not as much as I wanted to be. Okay? I’m not mad, I’m _not_. I’m just—”

“Sad.”

She swallows the lump in her throat. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Sad.”

It’s probably not the right thing to do, but he doesn’t care anymore. “C’mere,” he tries, extending his arm. And to his surprise she tucks underneath, reaches for his hand and squeezes his fingers tightly.

They walk on, bound up together, following the kids and their camera.


	3. Motel

“Hopper?” she tries.

“Mmm?” He’s biting the inside of his mouth, pinching his thigh with his offhand, trying to keep himself nice and awake as he pilots them home. He stole a few hours of sleep this morning, this shouldn’t be so hard; he used to be able to do this all the time…

The sensible part of his brain points out that his twenty-something-self, driving Army Jeeps while a mile high on testosterone and adrenaline from lasting out another night, might not be the best point of comparison. Still—

“Hop? Hopper? Did you even _hear_ me?”

“Yeah, uh. Yeah. You may have a point,” he manages. “The next motel. I promise.”

“I can pay—”

“It’s fine.”

She gives him a shrewd look. “Want me to keep talking? Help you stay awake?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Please.”

* * *

 

Jane doesn’t even wake up, she’s so tired. Still baby-bird light, he hoists her onto his shoulder and carries her into the dingy reception. Joyce shepherds a sleep-walking Will into the sputtering neon that declares: Vacancies.

“Uh, we need a room,” he tries.

“Yeah,” says the receptionist sarcastically, chewing loudly. “Most people that come in here do. I’ve got a family suite. That’s it. Take it or leave it.”

He has misgivings, but Joyce answers before he can put them all back on the road. “We’ll take it, thank you.”

“Forty bucks.”

He hears Joyce’s sharp intake of breath and something snaps. “Here,” he says, fumbling dog-eared bills out of his wallet.

“Enjoy your stay,” deadpans the receptionist, putting the cash in the register and passing him their key.

“You didn’t have to pay,” Joyce says, in an undertone, as they cross the pot-holed parking lot. 

“I wanted to,” he replies softly. “It’s my fault we’re here. Okay?”

“Your fault…” she scoffs, ready to go head to head with him over this piece of chivalry, but the rest of the sentence is lost as he pushes open the door to their room.

In the back is a cell-like space, with no windows and no furniture, beyond the tiny twin beds clearly intended to sleep kids. Grim and grey walled, but it’s cleaner than he was anticipating, and it means there’s either solid brick or Jim Hopper to go through to get to Jane.

He deposits her gently into the bed, tucking the sheets around her tightly. She mumbles in her sleep but doesn’t wake. “Sleep well kid,” he whispers, brushing curls from her forehead before he stands to leave. Behind him Joyce is doing the same for Will. It’s a strange moment, parenting in parallel. Or perhaps not. Perhaps, in another reality, Diane and Sara would still be with him – they might even have had more children – and this moment would feel mundane.

Joyce catches his eye.

Or perhaps, in another reality, it would still be the two of _them_ standing here with—

He derails that particular train of thought and follows her into the front room, closing the door quietly behind.

“You think there’s a pull-out bed hiding in that sofa?” she asks.

They investigate. It turns out to be a fairly straightforward exercise, extending it into a sagging double. There are clean sheets in one of the drawers. Joyce makes the bed up with practiced ease, while he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

She glances up, when she’s finished smoothing down the sheets to her satisfaction, and rolls her eyes. “Don’t even say it,” she says. “If one of us is sleeping on the floor it’s going to be me, okay? You’ve been driving—”

“I’m not arguing.” He smiles. “I’ve known you long enough to know when there’s no point.”

“Well…well _good_ ,” she sputters, wrong-footed.

He sits down on the bed, groaning slightly, involuntary. “God,” he moans, “when did we get so _old_?” It hurts to bend and unlace his boots.

“I don’t know,” she says, doing the same on the other side of the sofa-bed. “I think I was working and I missed it.”  

“Yeah.” He settles back against the headboard, finds the packet of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. Lights one, takes a much-needed drag, and holds out the cigarette for her.

There is a moment, he can feel, of consideration. Then something snaps, she takes the cigarette from his fingers and lies down next to him. Her legs are so short, stretched out next to his, her feet barely reach his knees.

“ _What_?” she says, breathing out smoke, toes curling under his gaze. “Is it-is it my socks?”

“No,” he smiles. He nudges her foot with his knee. “You’re just short.”

She raises an eyebrow, passing back the cigarette. “Did you not tease me about this enough in middle school already?”

“Apparently not.” He tries not to groan again, as the nicotine trills in his veins. He feels drunk on tiredness.

Silence stretches between them, companionable. “Do you think he’s having fun?” she says after a while.

“I’m sure he is.” More silence. Then she shudders slightly and he finally turns to look at her. She’s crying, tears streaming down her face. “Hey,” he tries, putting his arm around her again. “Hey, you’re all okay. Okay?”

Again, he can feel a moment of hesitation, as she weighs up the options. Decides to accept his comfort, resting her forehead against his chest. “I feel so ridiculous,” she says, voice thick. “This is _normal_. Kids grow up and move out.”

“If you’re lucky,” he hears himself say, from a long way away.

She winces. “God, Hop, I’m sorry. That was insensitive.”

“No,” he says. “You’re right. It _is_ normal. But things haven’t been normal for us for… a long time. And goodbyes like this are always bittersweet.”

“I just—I still feel like I was getting to know him? You know? As an adult. For the longest time I was so worried that he was going to be like Lonnie. And then I realised that the alternative is that he’s like _me_ , and—”

“He got the best of both of you,” Hopper says. “All your fight and cleverness, all of Lonnie’s big dreams and ambition. You did good. In spite of the circumstances. All of you.”

She sniffs. His shirt is wet with her tears. “When did you get so wise?” she manages, drawing back from him at last.

“I dunno. I think it happened when I wasn’t looking.”

“Hmm,” she chuckles, wiping her eyes, tucking errant hair behind her ears. “Thank you.”

* * *

He smokes another cigarette while she fusses in the bathroom, washing her face and brushing her teeth. He follows after, returning to the low sound of late-night television.

“Do you mind?” she asks, apologetic. “The noise…”

He understands. “It’s fine.” He’s falling down tired at this point. “I’m probably gonna…”

She nods. “Sleep. Yes. Good. Good night Hopper.”

“G’night.” He turns away, from her and the flickering TV screen, closes his eyes. He can barely see straight, sleep must surely by seconds away.

Instead, he finds he can feel every twitch of movement she makes next to him. Awareness of her proximity overriding even his exhaustion. He tries to breathe more deeply, count sheep. Nothing works.

After a while she turns off the television and settles down too. Facing away from each other, side by side in the dark. It’s probably a metaphor for their whole relationship.

His side is going numb. Her breathing has slowed. Hopefully she’s asleep now, and it’ll be less awkward to turn and face her. God, when was the last time he _cared_ so much about something like this? He rolls over, trying not to take all the covers with him, careful to maintain the clear space between them.

He’s almost asleep – almost— when she turns over too. He can smell the toothpaste on her breath, feel the warmth of her, inches away. He swallows. Sleep. Sleep is definitely the only safe option—

And there is her hand. Sliding across the sheet, into the empty space between them. Not touching him, not quite. But she’s not asleep and it feels like… a question.

He slides his hand to meet hers, littlest fingers just brushing, for a long moment. Then she curls her finger around his, like they’re swearing a childish promise. Maybe they are. He bites the bullet, takes her whole hand in his, fingers knitting together.

And they’ve held hands before, but not like this. The world is spinning off its axis. Everything feels like a dream, tiredness glossing everything with a curious unreality. He finds his nose is brushing their mingled fingers, then his lips, soft kisses pressed into her knuckles.  

He risks meeting her eyes, in the dark. Because he’s off the map now, in terms of their relationship, travelling without a compass and she’s the only star that can guide him home.

Her free hand cups his cheek and she kisses him. It’s a chaste thing to start, butterfly soft, eyes fluttering closed. Then her lips part under his and it’s like a dam has burst. Kissing so fiercely they’re both panting breathless; pulling her tight against him, even as her hands bunch in his shirt to hold him close.

“Joyce,” he manages, once, against her lips, as her trembling fingers fumble on his buttons.

“Please,” is all she says in reply, and there’s only one answer to that.


	4. Humming

One Week Later

“Humming,” Jane says.

“Hmm?”

“You. Humming.”

 “Oh.” He glances over at her, in the passenger seat of his truck. “Sorry, kid. Is it annoying you?”

“No,” she says solemnly. “It means you’re happy.”

He swallows, suddenly feeling like he is on very thin ice. “…Does it?”

“Yes.”

He clears his throat. “Good to know. So – you’re clear on what you need to say tonight?”

“Yes. Please and thank you. Mr and Mrs Wheeler. I grew up out of state. I met Mike and the others playing in the snow. Before Christmas. My—”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles. “You’ve got it.” They crunch to a halt outside the Wheeler residence. The basement lights are already blazing. “Go on then. I’ll be out here to pick you up at eight.”

“I won’t be late.”

“Good.”

He ruffles her hair goodbye, before she drops down from the truck and runs to the front door. Tries to ignore the sudden feeling of heaviness in his chest as she disappears inside, into the light and warm. Turns the ignition instead and drives a little way up the road, to where a green Pinto is parked inconspicuously.

He gets out and knocks on her window, making her jump. Hears her yelp through the window: “Jesus, Hopper!” But she fumbles the door open anyway, joins him in the penumbra of a broken streetlamp.

“So, this is you still giving him a few feet?”

She looks a bit chagrined. “I-I know it seems crazy—”

“I didn’t say that.”

Ruffled feathers settle. “I just wanted to make sure everything was… you know. Normal. Just for a few minutes.”

“I get it,” he says. “Look, Karen and Ted are home. I’m sure if there’s trouble—”

Joyce snorts. “Yeah. Ted’s a real Burt Reynolds. Sure he’ll be a lot of help if… if _things_ start happening again.”

He swallows a smile at this observation. “I was _going_ to say - I’m sure they’ll call the police.”

A sigh. “Yeah. I know.” She looks up at him, meeting his eyes properly for the first time. Somewhere between amused and annoyed. More worrying, from his perspective, is the way his stomach jolts under the weight of her gaze—

“So, uh,” he manages, looking at his feet instead. Scuffing the dirt. “How’s he doin’?”

“He’s ok. He’s been radioing Mike a lot to talk.”

“And Jonathan?”

She nods, her voice a little less constricted. “He rang me yesterday. He’s enjoying the course. Likes his room-mate.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

He rakes a little more dirt back and forth with his boot in the silence. “… So… How’s Donald doing these days—?”

“ _Jesus_ Hopper,” she laughs.

“What?”

“Will you just…shut up and kiss me again already?”

There is a second — a moment of sharply indrawn breath — while his brain plays her words back over again. Surely he’s somehow mistaken; some other words than those that were actually spoken?

She leans into him. Kisses him long and slow. Nose cold against his face, mouth warm under his. “I can’t stop thinking about—” he starts.

“Me too.”

She captures his mouth again, and he’s really not sure why he keeps trying to use if for anything else. But there are some things that have to be said.

“I wasn’t sure if—” he tries. 

“Me either.” She stops kissing him for a moment, hands on the lapels of his oversized jacket. She’s wearing the determined kind of expression he’s come to associate with averting an apocalypse. Bizarrely, that realisation freights reassurance. If she’s applying the same kind of tenacity to whatever _this_ is, then maybe they’ll have a chance after all. “But as of right now,” she continues, “I’m sure. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, and again against her mouth. “Okay.”

Something has unknotted, somewhere in his chest, a kind of fuzzy unreality descending again. And it’s true, he really _hasn’t_ been able to stop thinking about her. The way she moved against him in the dark; soft skin under his fingers and—

“Hop?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Not here.”

And she has a point. They’re pressed against her car, her feet dangling in the air where he’s hoisted her up to better reach his mouth. It’s probably a miracle the Henderson kid hasn’t cycled past, late to the games, and caught them already.

“C’mon,” he says, taking her hand.

* * *

Tipton Hill has an overlook right over the town. There’s a county history board and picnic tables on the grass these days, but years ago it was always known as a make out point—

Hop flicks a switch, and the blue lights on top of the Blazer flicker. Judging by the sudden rumble of engines, the three saloon cars that hastily pull out of the parking, today’s teens have found a similar use for the plateau.

“Harrington,” Hopper says into his radio. “You still down on the Kelly-Lime cross-section?”

A crackle. “Uh, yes Chief?”

“Go on up to the join with Maple. You’ve got three saloons heading down your way. Anything look off about 'em, you pull 'em over.”

“Gotcha Chief, loud and clear.”

He clicks off the radio and catches her expression. “What?”

You haven’t changed, she almost says. She thinks she means it as a compliment. But it’s a complicated thought to wrap into words – how he’s managed to retain a streak of anti-authoritarianism whilst simultaneously _becoming_ the authority – and right now she’s not in the mood for talking much.

She kisses him instead, in the dark under the pines. Climbs into his lap when he ratchets back his seat and forgets – for a moment – that forty has been and gone. That they live these days in grey shades of anxiety, waiting for that other shoe to drop. Forgets even the weight of the guilt she carries around all the time: is she there enough for her boys? Has she mourned enough for Bob?  Everything dissolves, at least for a minute, into the press of his hands on her body. The scratch of his beard against her face.

It isn’t cinematic love-making. Like before it’s hungry, desperate. Clothing roughly tugged aside in search of immediate release. Still something furtive, a thing of bitten lips and soft gasps. Only this time—afterwards—there are seconds enough for a moment of quiet together. He cups her face, stroking her hair back where it belongs, behind her ears. Eye heavy-lidded.

He doesn’t say anything – not with words, anyway. He’s always had the knack for that. Just looks at her. Like she’s a work of art rather than an overworked retail clerk. It’s worth a thousand fevered declarations of love, it really is.

“Next time they – uh,” he says. “Next time they play games together. Do you wanna maybe go and… get something to eat? Or, or a drink or something?”

A final soft kiss against his lips. A promise. “Yeah,” she smiles, “I’d like that.”

He hums — softly, under his breath—the whole ride back to her car.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this, I'm happily taking prompts over on Tumblr - ask box is open :)  
> http://archaeologue.tumblr.com/


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